


Goliath

by manic_intent



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas prompts, In which Goodnight has a big mouth at the Christmas party, M/M, That AU where everyone is an ATF agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: The first thing Goodnight ever said to Billy, unfortunately, was “Wow. You’re really hot.”Thankfully, Billy just stared at him with mild surprise, and Sam hustled him off, loudly changing the subject, while Goodnight turned beet red and tried to swallow his own tongue. Later during the Christmas party and morosely nursing a drink in as quiet a corner as Goodnight could find, Sam returned and said, “Really?”“Really what?”





	Goliath

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas Prompt 2/5 by Reaverbait: Magnificent 7, “They're ATF agents" AU. Ahaha what. Reaverbait didn’t ask for a pairing, but I guess I do miss writing Goodnight x Billy. 
> 
> For those who aren’t aware, ATF is the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in the USA.

The first thing Goodnight ever said to Billy, unfortunately, was “Wow. You’re really hot.” 

Thankfully, Billy just stared at him with mild surprise, and Sam hustled him off, loudly changing the subject, while Goodnight turned beet red and tried to swallow his own tongue. Later during the Christmas party and morosely nursing a drink in as quiet a corner as Goodnight could find, Sam returned and said, “Really?”

“Really what?” 

It was, in Goodnight’s opinion, pretty depressing that the Christmas party was being held just outside Washington DC, in a drab, cheap events hall that could hold about a couple thousand people. It was only half full: most of the tiny number of ATF agents hadn’t bothered to make the trek all the way to Washington DC just to talk shop, and at least half of the younger ATF agents Goodnight knew were probably gonna burn out and quit sometime anyways. 

It took an odd soul to stick it out in an agency that was terminally underfunded, understaffed (4,700 people for the whole of the US of A, really?), hobbled by its own government, and constantly demonised by one of the biggest lobby groups in the country, the NRA. Still. Goodnight was indeed one such odd soul, and the ATF fit him like an uneven and quixotic glove. 

“Y’know, Goody,” Sam said, pulling a face, “what with the Weinstein thing goin’ down everywhere, but even with that, it ain’t ever been right for a senior agent to say somethin’ like that to someone who done just signed on.” 

Goodnight reddened again. “I know, I know. Uhm. I’ll apologise? Or will that make it worse?” Goodnight had never been good with people, and four tours with the Army had made it worse, not better. 

“Depends on how you apologise.” 

“Okay. Okay.” Goodnight downed the shot of bourbon he was drinking for a little bit of courage. It didn’t help, and the extra alcohol sat uneasily in his stomach as he looked around for Billy.

He found Billy on the roof, leaning against the safety rail, watching the stars. It was mercilessly cold, and Goodnight sobered up quickly, his breaths steaming in the dim light from the windows below. He pulled his coat snugly over his shoulders and walked over to Billy, stiff and nervy. Once he was in reach, Billy glanced at him, though Goodnight sensed it was just to be polite. Wasn’t as though Goodnight had been sneaking up. Afghanistan had been him careful to make noise coming up behind someone he didn’t want to startle. 

“Agent Robicheaux,” Billy said, his pronunciation effortless. He had no accent that Goodnight could place, though he had to be American, right? Did you have to be American to sign on with the ATF? Wincing, Goodnight settled with his back to the rail at a respectful distance.

“Listen, uh, Billy, I mean, Agent Rocks, if you don’t want me to call you Billy that’s fine, though, if you insist on Agent Rocks I think you’re gonna cop it from the boys, not that they really mean anything bad, though it might come off that way…” Goodnight took in a deep breath. Fucking it up already. Great. “Um, I came up to say, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. To you.” 

Billy raised his eyebrows. Even in the bad light he was gorgeous, movie star gorgeous, his fine-boned face ageless, his trimmed beard and moustache only providing a frame to perfect angles, that neat mouth, those intense dark eyes that looked like a hunting cat’s. He wasn’t tall like most of the others, but he was elegantly made. “Did you mean it?” Billy asked, dry as dust. 

“Yeah,” Goodnight said, then he flushed again. “No! I mean. Yeah, but not in a creepy way. Uh. That was really creepy I think. Okay,” he added miserably, as Billy chuckled, “I should stop.”

“Not at all.” Billy looked amused. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. It was an observation, not a proposition, I presume. And we’re off the clock.” 

It hadn’t so much been an observation but an involuntary expression of shock that had somehow left his mouth without any input from his brain, but Goodnight nodded tightly. The fewer words the better. “I’m sorry,” he said, unnerved, when Billy merely nodded and looked out over the ATF compound, “I was out of line. Unprofessional.” 

“Apology accepted, sir.” 

Goodnight winced. “Please don’t. I mean, uh, not just you, but in general, I don’t like people calling me ‘Sir’ or ‘Agent Robicheaux’ after hours. Again. Not in a creepy way. Just. I’m senior because I’ve been in the agency for dog’s years. Nothing special.”

Billy looked at him with surprise. “Nothing special? Don’t you run the National Tracing Centre?” 

“Uh, well, I think ‘run’ is probably a bit of an exaggeration.” Besides, the NTC wasn’t exactly a building to be proud of. Not like this big ass DC facility. The NTC was a low, flat, boring building that had never been able to outgrow its IRS past, lurking in a small, quaint town in a quiet corner of West Virginia. Life was quiet there, the way Goodnight liked it. Undercover stings were for people whose nerves hadn’t yet been shredded. 

“They say that the ATF isn’t allowed to use computers to create a searchable database, but they get along fine because _you’re_ the computer. That they could describe any gun in the world to you and you could tell them where it’s from, and where it got sold to.” 

“Bit of an exaggeration,” Goodnight said, relaxing gratefully. A lot of the boys didn’t like talking shop outside of work hours, if only because work was often so goddamned depressing, but Goodnight did. Work was safe. Work was something he knew. “There’s this new thing nowadays, they call ‘em ghost guns. Untraceable, unserialised. DIY guns. And them’s legal as long as they’re for personal use. Easy to build with tabletop mills and 3D printers. Any kid and their mother can download a schematic off the internet and build it in their garage. It’s the Wild West out there now. A new frontier.” 

“Ghost guns are still only one per cent of all gun crimes out there in the USA,” Billy said. 

“Ah, you know your statistics! All _traced_ gun crimes out there. But it’s on the rise. And yeah, cases like Neal and that 23 year old, Zawahri, usually the outlier. Still, ain’t no’ much comfort to their vics.” They talked shop and statistics until Red peeked out of the roof access. 

“Party’s shutting up, Goody,” Red said, looking curiously at Billy. Red had been a decorated Green Beret before he’d inexplicably decided to sign on with the ATF instead of with the other cushier, more glamorous federal agencies out there, and nobody so far had dared ask why. He was an exemplary agent, and nobody wanted to be the one to clue Red in to the fact that he could probably do a damn sight better than the ATF. 

“Thanks. Um, this is Billy, he’s a junior agent, starting next week full time,” Goodnight said, with a nod at Billy. 

“I know,” Red said, with a quick smile. “He’s in my neck of the woods. See you tomorrow, Billy.”

“‘Night,” Billy said, and waited until Red had ducked away before looking over at Goodnight. “What?”

Goodnight had to be flushing again. It was all that bourbon, making him stupid. Why was he disappointed? Young agents signed up for the glam gigs. Ain’t nothing dramatic about what _Goody_ did in the agency. “Should’a guessed you were with Red’s team. He’s really good. Sam’s the boss, he’s a good man. Fair.” 

“Not that far from where you are,” Billy said lightly, and smiled when Goodnight started to sputter and cough. “Want to get a last drink? There’s a bar down the block that Red recommended.”

“Not there,” Goodnight said, because that was a bar that the ATF liked to frequent, run by a retired agent, no less, and everyone who hadn’t yet been done drinking would’ve already hustled there. “I know another place.”

#

To his mild irritation, a couple of other agents had had the same idea, though it looked like Vasquez and Faraday were already finishing up, drunk on shots and on each other’s company. They greeted Goodnight and Billy haphazardly and meandered out, singing made-up words to the tune of ‘America the Beautiful’. Billy smiled as they settled down in a corner on comfortable couches. It was late enough that they were now the only people in the bar other than the barkeeper. Billy ordered a gin and tonic to Goodnight’s bourbon.

“So why the ATF?” Goodnight asked, once the drinks had come. 

Billy shrugged. “They sent a recruiter around. He made a good sell.”

“You uh, Marines?” 

“Not particularly. You’re Army?”

“Yeah.” 

“Why did you sign up for the ATF?”

“Sam and I go way back. He talked me into it. Said I had a real good head for details and I could make a difference.” The lie came easily now, after all these years of practice. 

“Good sell,” Billy said, toasting the air. 

“USAF? Navy?” Goodnight guessed, but Billy just kept smiling and shaking his head. The man had to have had military training of some sort, judging from the way he moved and held himself. “C’mon, no need to be shy. What, Coast Guard?” 

“Not any of the armed forces, no.”

“I’m gonna just guess all night, y’know.”

“And you’d guess wrongly all night,” Billy said, which Goodnight took as an invitation to try. 

He worked his way through even HHS to the DOC and State Defense Forces until finally, flippantly, he said, “Blackwater?” and Billy froze, very slightly, before covering up by downing the rest of his gin. “ _Seriously_?”

“Not really.” 

“But close enough?” 

“Amyntor.” 

“Never heard of ‘em.” 

“Would’ve been surprised if you had.” Billy said lightly. “Blackwater is a military contractor. Amyntor is an intelligence contractor.” 

“So… Blackwater, but spies?” Goodnight blinked. “That’s. Crazy. Seriously?” 

“Seriously. And yes, Agent Chisholm knows, before you ask.” 

“Independent spy agency.” Huh. “Now I’m really curious why you went from that to the ATF.”

“It’s quiet here. And I wasn’t the first person to quit. Rumour is the new Administration’s going to become the biggest client. If not now, then soon. They want to get around using the FBI and the CIA.” Billy grinned, baring white teeth. “Last straw for some of us. We were fine being mercenaries, but that? Nah.”

“ATF didn’t seem like a bad place to come and watch the world burn?” Goodnight could identify with that. Billy shrugged. “Thanks, I guess,” Goodnight said dubiously, “for tellin’ me.”

“Nothing you can’t dig out of Agent Chisholm.” Billy smiled, giving Goodnight a frank, appraising once-over. When Goodnight merely stared back, a little bewildered—was there something on his shirt?—Billy sighed, and leaned over, pitching his voice into a low purr. “And you’re not so bad yourself, Agent Robicheaux.” 

“Bad at what?” Goodnight asked, before the rest of his brain caught up with him. “Oh. _Oh_. Really?” 

Billy started to chuckle. Goodnight wasn’t entirely sure what happened next, but somehow Billy was kissing him, and Goodnight was trying to kiss him back and making a hash of it, fumbling and sloppy, but Billy pinned him to the seat and let him flail until he was calming down. Nice and easy. 

“We’re still off the clock?” Goodnight asked breathlessly, when they parted. 

“Yes. And besides, I’m not even an agent yet. Technically.” Billy splayed a palm over Goodnight’s thigh, stroking the inseam, his smile wide and sharp now, a hunting cat’s grin. “Your place or mine?” 

“Thank God for technicalities,” Goodnight breathed, and leaned up to kiss Billy hard on his mouth. 

Billy’s place was closer, an apartment that he was renting. He’d just moved in: boxes were still stacked against the wall in neat piles, and the furniture was sparse, some still shrouded in plastic. The bed frame hadn’t yet been assembled, and lay in stacks of planking near the wall, but the mattress had a sheet and pillows. 

Not that Goodnight was going to be picky, not when someone like _Billy_ was giving him a shot. He sucked Billy off on the mattress, sloppy and more eager than he should’ve been. Nervousness made him a clumsy schoolboy all over again. Billy didn’t seem to care, silent, watching, until he spent himself down Goodnight’s throat, until Goodnight squirmed and moaned and swallowed it all. Billy returned the favour in the narrow shower, his fingers knuckle-deep in Goodnight’s ass and his teeth set in Goodnight’s throat, rumbling against him in a pleased, low purr as Goodnight wailed himself hoarse. 

They dried off and curled back on the mattress, Billy yawning, Goodnight nervous, not really wanting to presume, relaxing only when Billy snuggled against him and yawned again. He’d be setting off back home tomorrow anyway, back to the squat concrete block and his microfilm and the shipping containers of printed records that couldn’t pass as a substitute for a database even if they’d tried. Back to—

“Sleep,” Billy said, patting his back. “Talk tomorrow.” 

Sleep, Goodnight could manage. The talk, not so much. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He’d have to be ready to go first thing in the morning, probably. This was all still too good to be true. 

“Sleep,” Billy repeated, and brushed a kiss over Goodnight’s mouth. Goodnight closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t dream of drowning.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> —  
> Ahhhh this fic needed so much research.
> 
> https://www.gq.com/story/inside-federal-bureau-of-way-too-many-guns - This is my fav article on the ATF. It’s crazy.  
> How the NRA hobbled the ATF: http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/02/atf-gun-laws-nra/  
> How the Government makes gun records impossible to trace: https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/wdbd9y/the-atfs-nonsensical-non-searchable-gun-databases-explained-392  
> Untraceable guns: http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2017/12/people-are-making-completely-untraceable-guns-in-their-homes-driving-a-new-kind-of-crime/  
> https://theintercept.com/2017/12/04/trump-white-house-weighing-plans-for-private-spies-to-counter-deep-state-enemies/


End file.
